07 August 2006
71. Drama
NC/SC 2006 - 23 June 2006 to 25 June 2006
There are a few things I normally don’t add to hash trashes. I don’t use names if it’s going to get people into trouble. I don’t call people out for laying a shitty trail. And I don’t include the drama. It’s all negative, and all a downer, and that’s not why we hash.
But let’s just say some sober aliens (translation: stupid aliens) were to fly their UFO here and pick these 71 hash trashes to read. They would not get a complete understanding of what hashing is about, because there's booze at hashes. And booze at hashes can lead to shitty trails and a shitload of drama.
One good thing about being a road whore is that you can avoid a lot of the drama because you’re not as involved with everything and don’t know everyone as well. You still witness drama, although it doesn’t usually affect you as bad. But the more you hash in one spot, even out-of-town, the more likely drama will strike.
------
Enter the NC/SC Interhash. I know it’s in different places every year, but for some reason, all four I’ve done have led to some pretty wild drama, to a point where the drive home and the couple days after have produced some very non-hash-like contemplation. I don’t know what it is about this event, but it’s really wild.
Oh, you want examples. The first NC/SC I did was in 2003 at the Plantation, and that was the first event where I blacked out and became invincible. At one point, I was playing 3-Man with Captain Morgan. I stood up during a break in the action and proceeded to pass out cold, hitting my cranium on some random hard surface and falling to the floor. Luckily, some not-so drunk hashers drug my ass outside, forced me to puke and started force-feeding me water. Unfortunately for everyone that went to sleep later, I was up again at 3:30a, trying to find out where everyone was.
The next year at Pilot Mountain, I passed out cold in my tent at around 5am and woke up with a flood of water in my tent, which had been pulled up and somehow moved down the road. A wild storm had come though with hurricane-like winds and threw people’s tents around like they were, um, tents. Daybreak had hit when I crawled out of the watery tomb, and I was still so drunk the scenes of destruction barely even registered a blip. I was still drunk until noon. That was the year I stopped drinking for almost 2 months.
Now don’t get me wrong; there’s an amazing amount of fun included in these weekends. And even if you were to do some Random Acts of Super-Human Retard Strength, many people have been in the same position and won’t think less of you. As long as you don’t hurt anyone else, you’re just fighting your own guilt. The trick for me is to sleep enough before the event, eat all weekend and be very careful what I get myself into. That means no more 3-Man with hard liquor, and NO MORE TIPPY CUP. EVER.
------
Fast-forward to 2006. The 13th Anal NC/SC was being held in Charlotte, on Copperhead Island at Lake Wylie. The last time we rented out the island was the year before, for Charlotte’s 600th. The area is great, since we’re relatively secluded and surrounded by the McDowell Nature Preserve. That means people who leave camp get a decent trail, and we don’t piss off a whole lot of locals or park rangers.
Sometimes you can predict the drama level for the entire weekend by how difficult the drive is to camp. Call it an omen. Our omen was Google. Gentrifuckation and I left Atlanta at 9:30a and hit his storage unit in Concord, around exit 50, to drop off some of his furniture. Google said to go back to exit 10 to get to camp, so off we went. Exit 10? Nope. Try exit 30. So back north we went, and our little jaunt to Concord took an extra hour and a half. But by the time we got off the highway, we didn't give a shit since the smell of beer was so strong. Hey, you can't spell BEvERage without BEER.
It was really spectacular to see everyone, and there was a lot of cool kids to see. There was positive energy everywhere and we noticed an upward spike of love every time another group arrived. The best part was that I kept seeing people for the first time all the way through circle Saturday afternoon. In other words, I kept saying, "Holy shit, I didn't know you were here this weekend."
It was hot -- easily 90 degrees (and humid) -- so just getting bags out of your vehichle left you sticky. Now try setting up a tent and an air mattress/sleeping bag combo. Some people were walking around looking like they had just jumped in a pool.
I had about a gallon and a half of extra shooters from the Drunken Scientist Lair that I couldn't consume on my own, so I brought the bottles to camp. And after the first beer hit me, I had the Genius Idea to pass them around immediately. This ended up being an acceptable prelube to the pub crawl, which started right before dark.
MINI-DRAMA #1: We got to the parking lot to find the gate locked, and hashers pulling up trying to figure out how to get in. It was Stupid, DP and Hilfrigger if I remember correctly. This minor ordeal lasted at least 20 minutes, since we had to find the combination to the lock that the park service gave us (6-0-0-6), and then try more combinations until one worked (0-6-6-0). Later than sooner, all the thirsty campers were shut inside the U-Haul and we were off. I found space in one of the vehicles that were following the U-Haul, and my space was laying on top of some bins in the back of an SUV. Hey, wait... Surly Temple was driving. Was he SOBER? I've never seen that before. Apparently, he made it to Drinking Practice at Shitty and Scabby's house the night before and had a little too much drinky-drinky.
MINI-DRAMA #2: The U-Haul got lost somehow, which didn't make much sense because we were supposed to be following it. The vehicles pulled off on a side street and some of us started calling people in our phone books to find out what happened. No one had their phone on, either at the pub crawl or at camp. Go figure. Finally, somebody with freaky-good eyesight spotted the U-Haul rumbling toward us in the dark, and we all pulled out behind it.
A lot of people arrived at camp saying they didn't feel like pub crawling, but I've got to assume most were glad they did. We only hit two bars, and it was fairly entertaining. In the first bar, we filled the place up and scared all the locals. At the second bar, we filled the place up again. This place was bigger and there were more people already there, which means we had more people to torment. A cover band was playing... um... covers... and pretty soon, the dance floor was full of semi-not-sober hashers and a guy who kept running around screaming for everyone to not hold drinks while they gyrated.
Surly and I always make Diddy's Spank Bank at least once during an event, but things were looking grim this time around. a) He forgot the wrestling singlets we were going to wear; b) He made Diddy sad because he also forgot a third singlet he had promised to give her and c) I was at a pub crawl without any women's clothing to change in to. Determined to get into her Spank Bank again, Diddy and I did a Top Swap... she got my t-shirt and I got her girly-top. Mission accomplished, but...
MINI-DRAMA #3: I was walking around a redneck bar with girly clothes on. And my appointed body guards kept walking away. Some bearded Harley guy walked up to me and said "Son, you better take that off." Things were looking grim. But a rednecky Lady Luck was one my side when this woman looked at me and said "What did you do, lose a bet?" I said yes, and for the rest of our stay, kept telling people I lost a bet so I wasn't a threat to anyone's manhood.
Somehow we all got back to camp and somehow I put myself to bed. I can't remember when it was, but it rained Friday evening. Hard. There was water in tents, mud in tents, as well as soaked clothes, bags and sleeping bags in tents. Rusty might have won for the biggest disaster - there was a coat of red mud covering most of his tent floor. Good stuff.
------
As we were pointing and laughing at all the damage Saturday morning, I heard my co-hare snoring in his tent nearby. Shitty and I had decided not to scout trail this year and just wing it. And Buck was going to be a third hare, so we were thinking things would turn out pretty well. But I got a hair (hare?) up my ass and decided to at least go out and scout to the beer stop. All Tongues needed d'erections anyway for the beer truck and bimbos.
Copperhead Island is actually a peninsula shaped like a stubby little dick that sticks out into the lake. Going up the road (the shaft of the stubby little dick) and past the private property uses up almost a mile of trail, so if you want any amount of shiggy, you have to do a loop and cross the lake back to camp. Beav got a deal on noodles so people who hate swimming (like me) wouldn't drown. (YES, I know how to swim. Damn.) Scabby suggested crossing the lake last this year, which would mean we could have a second beer stop as everyone grabbed a noodle.
Wayyy Beyond Gay noticed I was heading out and volunteered to be one of the professional beer truck drivers. He then volunteered to drive me around so he would know where the beer stop and lake crossing would be. He had a park map in his car, so as he was driving, I was looking for landmarks and adding waypoints to my GPS. He finished his neighborly duties by dropping me off across the lake from camp. From there, I scouted backwards.
The area was gorgeous, and I even found a creek and some mud. At one point, I forgot to keep checking my GPS and ended up doing an entire loop all the way back to a piece of my surveyor's tape. Crap. Now I was running the risk of being late. I started half-running half-walking back to camp, and got back at 12:45. Trail was at 1. I had enough time to change shirts and get to circle. On-Out.
Shitty got snared at one point on trail while he was laying a YBF along a power line cut. As for Buck and I, the closest we ever got to getting snared was the entire area from the powerline cut to the beer stop. We heard whistles for over a mile, and never ran into a hound. At one point, we even SAW hounds. The best part was when the professional beer truck drivers were waiting for us at the first beer stop and heard the hares' whistles before they saw the hares.
MAJOR DRAMA #1
We never even got a chance to get the noodles out of the beer truck at the second beer stop. The park ranger said if we cross the lake he would shut us down. Apparently, the county allows boating and water skiing, but not swimming. How the hell were we going to get all these people back to camp? Shit. Option One was to drive some people back in the beer truck and grab a shitload of vehicles. But each vehicle would have to pay to get into the park. We chose Option Two, which kept the beer and the beer truck with the hounds. Furbreeze was driving Vitamin D Cup's car, and had followed the beer truck to the second beer stop, but had to park in the lot right before the Park entrance because she didn't have any cash on her. So her, me and Red Breast walked all the way to the car, got to camp and then tried to figure out how to turn the U-Haul into a Hound Retreiving Device. Well, I had been out 5 hours at this point in 90-plus degree weather, and for the first time ever, I got pissy at an event. Yes, it's true. We were standing in the sun, trying to figure out where the U-Haul keys were, who would drive, who had directions back to the second beer stop and whether it was fair to leave all those people in the back of a U-Haul for the long ride back to camp. By the time they got the keys and figured out who would drive (Buck, I think) it was all I could do to shove my GPS and someone and say "Follow the arrow and you'll get to them. I'm about ready to have a meltdown."
It was quite a while before everyone came back, and by that time, I had cleaned up, changed, medicated myself (with BEER) and chugged about a half-gallon of water. Circle was of the utmost quality, and as an added bonus, Rusty and Twattoo were bibbed. Congratulations.
MAJOR DRAMA #2
I was also haring the Shooting Star Hash that night, so after circle, I started putting the shots together. I was essentially working on an empty stomach, and time was getting tight, so I was trying to get my still-medicated brain to perform as fast as possible. Booze and juice and jugs and bottles were everywhere. It was all I could do to keep my funnel and measuring cup in sight at all times. At one point, the vodka I needed was buried somewhere, so I subconsciously grabbed a fellow hasher's bottle of vodka and used some of that. I was going to give away all my extra booze after the mixing was finished anyway, so I didn't think twice about it. But someone who knew the vodka owner was sitting there watching me, and got up to rat me out.
I had finished at least two more shots when Vodka Owner came back and called me out. Stealing booze is a baaaaaaaad offense, an my jaw dropped to the floor. How could I defend myself, or make any excuse believeable? It was impossible. The problem is (warning: big adult-type concept here), not only do I consider Vodka Owner a good friend, I also value the mutual respect we have for each other. I couldn't believe something like this was going to be what might put our friendship in jeopardy, especially since I know the guy who ratted me out, and we get along fine. He could have easily said something to me when it happened, although I don't blame him at all for deciding not to go that route.
Because I had been concentrating so fast and for so long, and because I was so tired and drunk, I stood there next to Vodka Owner and started mumbling like an idiot. Shock finally turned to irritation, and I was able to quickly rummage through all my booze until I found my own vodka and hand it over. I finished mixing and took my Pity Party elsewhere. While passing around the last half-gallon of extra shooters, I joyously blacked out for a few hours.
By 10:45 that night, I was barely able to move, but somehow found the energy to sprint back to start the Shooting Star Hash. Well, I THOUGHT it was 10:45. But apparently, the person we were using as a timepiece lived in the Central Time Zone, because someone later told me it was really 11:45 when I arrived. Shappens had already got the ball rolling by announcing the event, and adding a pre-lube extra-credit stop. I quickly got seven volunteers, handed each of them two gallons of booze and got some TP for the trail. On-Out.
MAJOR DRAMA #3
The hash was going well until someone who shall remain nameless decided to hit someone else who shall remain nameless square in the face and break some stuff. Things got chaotic at that point, but I never found out about any of it until later because I was so far ahead laying trail. Multiple people told me Sunday that the hash essentially ground to a halt, and by the time everyone was due to the second-to-last stop at the dock, hardly anyone showed up. The final stop was Key Lime Pie, and the two jugs of it eventually made their way to the group checking out the bleeding hasher.
The next couple hours were a blur. There was some swimming in the lake, and at some point, Scabby decided I needed to wear the (in)famous Sound of Music dress, so I had that on for the rest of the night. I was told I ended up hanging out at Confused and Money's tenting area, and allowed drunk people to Sharpie my entire cranium with a magnormous Marks-A-Lot. Around 3 in the morning, I went to my tent and passed out hard. But I apparently wasn't done making a spectacle of myself. A group of people photographed me and then drug me out of my tent -- cot and all -- and dumped me right underneath the keg pyramid near the beer trailer. To add insult to injury, they beat me with those long noodles we were supposed to use to float across the lake earlier that day.
------
It was daylight, maybe 6 or 7 am, when I finally woke up and carried my cot back into the tent. At 8:30, Gentrifuckation came in to find out if I wanted to get ready to leave. I was still drunk. And the 1.5 or 2.5 hours of sleep I got didn't really help, since people kept unzipping my tent flap every few minutes to take a look at the Sharpied Freak. I finally got ready to go, and we were out by 10.
This is the point where I wrap up all the drama with a witty and meaningful sentence that solidifies my argument and makes everyone caress their chin in thought. OK, here you go: Drama sucks.
May the Hash Get a (Non-Dramatic) Piece
There are a few things I normally don’t add to hash trashes. I don’t use names if it’s going to get people into trouble. I don’t call people out for laying a shitty trail. And I don’t include the drama. It’s all negative, and all a downer, and that’s not why we hash.
But let’s just say some sober aliens (translation: stupid aliens) were to fly their UFO here and pick these 71 hash trashes to read. They would not get a complete understanding of what hashing is about, because there's booze at hashes. And booze at hashes can lead to shitty trails and a shitload of drama.
One good thing about being a road whore is that you can avoid a lot of the drama because you’re not as involved with everything and don’t know everyone as well. You still witness drama, although it doesn’t usually affect you as bad. But the more you hash in one spot, even out-of-town, the more likely drama will strike.
------
Enter the NC/SC Interhash. I know it’s in different places every year, but for some reason, all four I’ve done have led to some pretty wild drama, to a point where the drive home and the couple days after have produced some very non-hash-like contemplation. I don’t know what it is about this event, but it’s really wild.
Oh, you want examples. The first NC/SC I did was in 2003 at the Plantation, and that was the first event where I blacked out and became invincible. At one point, I was playing 3-Man with Captain Morgan. I stood up during a break in the action and proceeded to pass out cold, hitting my cranium on some random hard surface and falling to the floor. Luckily, some not-so drunk hashers drug my ass outside, forced me to puke and started force-feeding me water. Unfortunately for everyone that went to sleep later, I was up again at 3:30a, trying to find out where everyone was.
The next year at Pilot Mountain, I passed out cold in my tent at around 5am and woke up with a flood of water in my tent, which had been pulled up and somehow moved down the road. A wild storm had come though with hurricane-like winds and threw people’s tents around like they were, um, tents. Daybreak had hit when I crawled out of the watery tomb, and I was still so drunk the scenes of destruction barely even registered a blip. I was still drunk until noon. That was the year I stopped drinking for almost 2 months.
Now don’t get me wrong; there’s an amazing amount of fun included in these weekends. And even if you were to do some Random Acts of Super-Human Retard Strength, many people have been in the same position and won’t think less of you. As long as you don’t hurt anyone else, you’re just fighting your own guilt. The trick for me is to sleep enough before the event, eat all weekend and be very careful what I get myself into. That means no more 3-Man with hard liquor, and NO MORE TIPPY CUP. EVER.
------
Fast-forward to 2006. The 13th Anal NC/SC was being held in Charlotte, on Copperhead Island at Lake Wylie. The last time we rented out the island was the year before, for Charlotte’s 600th. The area is great, since we’re relatively secluded and surrounded by the McDowell Nature Preserve. That means people who leave camp get a decent trail, and we don’t piss off a whole lot of locals or park rangers.
Sometimes you can predict the drama level for the entire weekend by how difficult the drive is to camp. Call it an omen. Our omen was Google. Gentrifuckation and I left Atlanta at 9:30a and hit his storage unit in Concord, around exit 50, to drop off some of his furniture. Google said to go back to exit 10 to get to camp, so off we went. Exit 10? Nope. Try exit 30. So back north we went, and our little jaunt to Concord took an extra hour and a half. But by the time we got off the highway, we didn't give a shit since the smell of beer was so strong. Hey, you can't spell BEvERage without BEER.
It was really spectacular to see everyone, and there was a lot of cool kids to see. There was positive energy everywhere and we noticed an upward spike of love every time another group arrived. The best part was that I kept seeing people for the first time all the way through circle Saturday afternoon. In other words, I kept saying, "Holy shit, I didn't know you were here this weekend."
It was hot -- easily 90 degrees (and humid) -- so just getting bags out of your vehichle left you sticky. Now try setting up a tent and an air mattress/sleeping bag combo. Some people were walking around looking like they had just jumped in a pool.
I had about a gallon and a half of extra shooters from the Drunken Scientist Lair that I couldn't consume on my own, so I brought the bottles to camp. And after the first beer hit me, I had the Genius Idea to pass them around immediately. This ended up being an acceptable prelube to the pub crawl, which started right before dark.
MINI-DRAMA #1: We got to the parking lot to find the gate locked, and hashers pulling up trying to figure out how to get in. It was Stupid, DP and Hilfrigger if I remember correctly. This minor ordeal lasted at least 20 minutes, since we had to find the combination to the lock that the park service gave us (6-0-0-6), and then try more combinations until one worked (0-6-6-0). Later than sooner, all the thirsty campers were shut inside the U-Haul and we were off. I found space in one of the vehicles that were following the U-Haul, and my space was laying on top of some bins in the back of an SUV. Hey, wait... Surly Temple was driving. Was he SOBER? I've never seen that before. Apparently, he made it to Drinking Practice at Shitty and Scabby's house the night before and had a little too much drinky-drinky.
MINI-DRAMA #2: The U-Haul got lost somehow, which didn't make much sense because we were supposed to be following it. The vehicles pulled off on a side street and some of us started calling people in our phone books to find out what happened. No one had their phone on, either at the pub crawl or at camp. Go figure. Finally, somebody with freaky-good eyesight spotted the U-Haul rumbling toward us in the dark, and we all pulled out behind it.
A lot of people arrived at camp saying they didn't feel like pub crawling, but I've got to assume most were glad they did. We only hit two bars, and it was fairly entertaining. In the first bar, we filled the place up and scared all the locals. At the second bar, we filled the place up again. This place was bigger and there were more people already there, which means we had more people to torment. A cover band was playing... um... covers... and pretty soon, the dance floor was full of semi-not-sober hashers and a guy who kept running around screaming for everyone to not hold drinks while they gyrated.
Surly and I always make Diddy's Spank Bank at least once during an event, but things were looking grim this time around. a) He forgot the wrestling singlets we were going to wear; b) He made Diddy sad because he also forgot a third singlet he had promised to give her and c) I was at a pub crawl without any women's clothing to change in to. Determined to get into her Spank Bank again, Diddy and I did a Top Swap... she got my t-shirt and I got her girly-top. Mission accomplished, but...
MINI-DRAMA #3: I was walking around a redneck bar with girly clothes on. And my appointed body guards kept walking away. Some bearded Harley guy walked up to me and said "Son, you better take that off." Things were looking grim. But a rednecky Lady Luck was one my side when this woman looked at me and said "What did you do, lose a bet?" I said yes, and for the rest of our stay, kept telling people I lost a bet so I wasn't a threat to anyone's manhood.
Somehow we all got back to camp and somehow I put myself to bed. I can't remember when it was, but it rained Friday evening. Hard. There was water in tents, mud in tents, as well as soaked clothes, bags and sleeping bags in tents. Rusty might have won for the biggest disaster - there was a coat of red mud covering most of his tent floor. Good stuff.
------
As we were pointing and laughing at all the damage Saturday morning, I heard my co-hare snoring in his tent nearby. Shitty and I had decided not to scout trail this year and just wing it. And Buck was going to be a third hare, so we were thinking things would turn out pretty well. But I got a hair (hare?) up my ass and decided to at least go out and scout to the beer stop. All Tongues needed d'erections anyway for the beer truck and bimbos.
Copperhead Island is actually a peninsula shaped like a stubby little dick that sticks out into the lake. Going up the road (the shaft of the stubby little dick) and past the private property uses up almost a mile of trail, so if you want any amount of shiggy, you have to do a loop and cross the lake back to camp. Beav got a deal on noodles so people who hate swimming (like me) wouldn't drown. (YES, I know how to swim. Damn.) Scabby suggested crossing the lake last this year, which would mean we could have a second beer stop as everyone grabbed a noodle.
Wayyy Beyond Gay noticed I was heading out and volunteered to be one of the professional beer truck drivers. He then volunteered to drive me around so he would know where the beer stop and lake crossing would be. He had a park map in his car, so as he was driving, I was looking for landmarks and adding waypoints to my GPS. He finished his neighborly duties by dropping me off across the lake from camp. From there, I scouted backwards.
The area was gorgeous, and I even found a creek and some mud. At one point, I forgot to keep checking my GPS and ended up doing an entire loop all the way back to a piece of my surveyor's tape. Crap. Now I was running the risk of being late. I started half-running half-walking back to camp, and got back at 12:45. Trail was at 1. I had enough time to change shirts and get to circle. On-Out.
Shitty got snared at one point on trail while he was laying a YBF along a power line cut. As for Buck and I, the closest we ever got to getting snared was the entire area from the powerline cut to the beer stop. We heard whistles for over a mile, and never ran into a hound. At one point, we even SAW hounds. The best part was when the professional beer truck drivers were waiting for us at the first beer stop and heard the hares' whistles before they saw the hares.
MAJOR DRAMA #1
We never even got a chance to get the noodles out of the beer truck at the second beer stop. The park ranger said if we cross the lake he would shut us down. Apparently, the county allows boating and water skiing, but not swimming. How the hell were we going to get all these people back to camp? Shit. Option One was to drive some people back in the beer truck and grab a shitload of vehicles. But each vehicle would have to pay to get into the park. We chose Option Two, which kept the beer and the beer truck with the hounds. Furbreeze was driving Vitamin D Cup's car, and had followed the beer truck to the second beer stop, but had to park in the lot right before the Park entrance because she didn't have any cash on her. So her, me and Red Breast walked all the way to the car, got to camp and then tried to figure out how to turn the U-Haul into a Hound Retreiving Device. Well, I had been out 5 hours at this point in 90-plus degree weather, and for the first time ever, I got pissy at an event. Yes, it's true. We were standing in the sun, trying to figure out where the U-Haul keys were, who would drive, who had directions back to the second beer stop and whether it was fair to leave all those people in the back of a U-Haul for the long ride back to camp. By the time they got the keys and figured out who would drive (Buck, I think) it was all I could do to shove my GPS and someone and say "Follow the arrow and you'll get to them. I'm about ready to have a meltdown."
It was quite a while before everyone came back, and by that time, I had cleaned up, changed, medicated myself (with BEER) and chugged about a half-gallon of water. Circle was of the utmost quality, and as an added bonus, Rusty and Twattoo were bibbed. Congratulations.
MAJOR DRAMA #2
I was also haring the Shooting Star Hash that night, so after circle, I started putting the shots together. I was essentially working on an empty stomach, and time was getting tight, so I was trying to get my still-medicated brain to perform as fast as possible. Booze and juice and jugs and bottles were everywhere. It was all I could do to keep my funnel and measuring cup in sight at all times. At one point, the vodka I needed was buried somewhere, so I subconsciously grabbed a fellow hasher's bottle of vodka and used some of that. I was going to give away all my extra booze after the mixing was finished anyway, so I didn't think twice about it. But someone who knew the vodka owner was sitting there watching me, and got up to rat me out.
I had finished at least two more shots when Vodka Owner came back and called me out. Stealing booze is a baaaaaaaad offense, an my jaw dropped to the floor. How could I defend myself, or make any excuse believeable? It was impossible. The problem is (warning: big adult-type concept here), not only do I consider Vodka Owner a good friend, I also value the mutual respect we have for each other. I couldn't believe something like this was going to be what might put our friendship in jeopardy, especially since I know the guy who ratted me out, and we get along fine. He could have easily said something to me when it happened, although I don't blame him at all for deciding not to go that route.
Because I had been concentrating so fast and for so long, and because I was so tired and drunk, I stood there next to Vodka Owner and started mumbling like an idiot. Shock finally turned to irritation, and I was able to quickly rummage through all my booze until I found my own vodka and hand it over. I finished mixing and took my Pity Party elsewhere. While passing around the last half-gallon of extra shooters, I joyously blacked out for a few hours.
By 10:45 that night, I was barely able to move, but somehow found the energy to sprint back to start the Shooting Star Hash. Well, I THOUGHT it was 10:45. But apparently, the person we were using as a timepiece lived in the Central Time Zone, because someone later told me it was really 11:45 when I arrived. Shappens had already got the ball rolling by announcing the event, and adding a pre-lube extra-credit stop. I quickly got seven volunteers, handed each of them two gallons of booze and got some TP for the trail. On-Out.
MAJOR DRAMA #3
The hash was going well until someone who shall remain nameless decided to hit someone else who shall remain nameless square in the face and break some stuff. Things got chaotic at that point, but I never found out about any of it until later because I was so far ahead laying trail. Multiple people told me Sunday that the hash essentially ground to a halt, and by the time everyone was due to the second-to-last stop at the dock, hardly anyone showed up. The final stop was Key Lime Pie, and the two jugs of it eventually made their way to the group checking out the bleeding hasher.
The next couple hours were a blur. There was some swimming in the lake, and at some point, Scabby decided I needed to wear the (in)famous Sound of Music dress, so I had that on for the rest of the night. I was told I ended up hanging out at Confused and Money's tenting area, and allowed drunk people to Sharpie my entire cranium with a magnormous Marks-A-Lot. Around 3 in the morning, I went to my tent and passed out hard. But I apparently wasn't done making a spectacle of myself. A group of people photographed me and then drug me out of my tent -- cot and all -- and dumped me right underneath the keg pyramid near the beer trailer. To add insult to injury, they beat me with those long noodles we were supposed to use to float across the lake earlier that day.
------
It was daylight, maybe 6 or 7 am, when I finally woke up and carried my cot back into the tent. At 8:30, Gentrifuckation came in to find out if I wanted to get ready to leave. I was still drunk. And the 1.5 or 2.5 hours of sleep I got didn't really help, since people kept unzipping my tent flap every few minutes to take a look at the Sharpied Freak. I finally got ready to go, and we were out by 10.
This is the point where I wrap up all the drama with a witty and meaningful sentence that solidifies my argument and makes everyone caress their chin in thought. OK, here you go: Drama sucks.
May the Hash Get a (Non-Dramatic) Piece
# posted by L&F @ 2:30 PM 
